ári
by NoFootprintsInSand
Summary: Am I Bedelia now? she doesn't ask him as they sit in the drawing room in the evenings, Hannibal in velvet and silk and she with shiny pink scars in place of jewels. (alternate universe: genderswap. female Will Graham)


_Fundy National Park, Canada_

* * *

Will remembers little from immediately after they fall ( _jumped. she jumped and he_ allowed _it_ ). Only pain and tides and shattered bones.

He heals her.

She has no idea how. But, of course, it's _him._ He is in possession of means far beyond her slippery _(slippery_ _like seaweed_ ) grip on reality.

And he is not angry with her for hurling both their lives at jagged edges and churning waves. It makes her furious at first, then just….resigned.

She had been foolish to believe that Hannibal Lecter could be killed. You cannot kill what he is.

And she had been more foolish still to believe he would let her go, set her free, soaring with him through briny air, a few precious seconds of weightlessness and love and _understanding_ before the end.

 _(the perfect end_ )

Of course not.

He is far too selfish a creature.

As soon as she is able to stand and take a few hesitant steps _(her face is agony and her shoulder is throbbing and her entire body screams and she cannot bring herself to go near a mirror)_ he tells her that it is time for them to leave.

She understands. They are hunted now. Monsters. Doctor Frankenstein and his tattered shattered bride.

She will miss this rough-hewn cosy cottage though.

* * *

 _St Petersburg, Russia_

* * *

She has no idea how Hannibal gets them out of Canada, but they are here now, and maybe one day soon she will pluck up the courage to leave the opulent apartment he found them. He humours her, at least for now, and stays with her, calm and immovable as she paces the rooms and pretends that this is a prison. She likes to watch the snow fall outside the windows and she can see the Winter Palace from her room. _Am I Bedelia now_? she doesn't ask him as they sit in the drawing room in the evenings, Hannibal in velvet and silk and she with shiny pink scars in place of jewels.

She frets, but instead of fidgeting with her glasses she strokes her scars, and she absolutely does not drink. He soothes her with words, as always. His words, oh his _words_. They tangle in her unkempt locks, and tickle the space right behind her eyes. His twisted words, his demon words, his beautiful words.

He always kisses her forehead as she retires to her bedroom and Will, she never forgets that Hannibal's words are flowers stolen from graves.

* * *

 _Istanbul, Turkey_

* * *

Her scars are no longer quite so new, and she starts to leave their residence, a beautiful house in the Old Town and she is pretty sure the previous inhabitant is dead. She wears a man's coat with the large collar upturned over her face as she trails the ancient city. She allows the old stone to whisper to her, a susurrus from a different time, Constantinople, Byzantium, faint hums from rich and dead empires tickling the inside of her skull. The sun streaks honey across her hair and strokes freckles across her nose, but she misses the cold.

She misses bleak vistas and pines covered in snow.

Hannibal wanders too, and she is in no doubt of his aim. She recognises the restless flash in his eyes – yes, she feels it as keenly herself - and Hannibal has never had any qualms against indulging after all.

 _(The pendulum swings and he is standing inside the Hagia Sophia condescending God with blood smeared on his chin.)_

He doesn't seem to fear that she will set flight; he sees her out with a palm gliding slowly down her back and a quirk of his lips that makes her want to scratch his eyes out.

She always comes back just as he knows she will.

She knows it too.

* * *

 _Mumbai, India_

* * *

She can't bear it here and the pulse in her temples is driving her insane. The heat, the smells, the bodies, the impressions stabbing stabbing _stabbing_ her eyes. She keeps indoors, and her dreams are full of cold winds and black blood on her hands.

Hannibal, too, is restless. He thinks of Europe and refinement and old scrolls and history and philosophy. He dream of Florence, Will knows he is when she sees how his mouth tightens just so.

Returning would be insanity, and Hannibal Lecter are many things, nearly all of them monstrous, but he is not insane.

He yearns for it though, as much as he can ever yearn for anything. Being denied irks him ( _she irked him for so long_ ) and hellfire flashes maroon in his eyes whenever he thinks of Florence.

Will thinks it strange how one can be so attached to a _place_ , long for it even, but then she remembers her house back in Wolf Trap, her safe ship cresting those foaming furious waves of darkness, and maybe she understands.

And so Hannibal draws the Uffizi as she moves jerkily about their enormous rooms, touches old spines and fine woods, and she meets her own eyes in the ostentatious mirror and hesitates. His voice carries softly from across the room. "You are quite the fine and rare creature, Willhelmina. You are beautiful." She feels his desire then, some of it for her body and perhaps even her face, but most of it for her mind.

He had once desired to eat her mind with a spoon. He had wanted to know the intricate workings of her brain, had tried to expose it to fresh air and his heated gaze and then devour it.

( _she remembers blood pouring down her face and saw meeting bone and Jack's screams oh his screams. Poor dear Jack_ ).

She does not think he would anymore. If he tires of her she thinks he will drink her marrow, break her open and wolf down her very essence. Keep her within him forever.

She walks across the room to him, sits on the armrest of his chair and touches her forehead to his.

Of all of the deadly sins he consorts with, gluttony is the one he loves the best.

* * *

 _Dubrovnik, Croatia_

* * *

It's not Florence but it will do, and Hannibal takes pleasure in the crystal clear waters, the old buildings, the sun-warmed flesh. He enjoys the touch of the renaissance, of the gothic, the gulls soaring above the cliffs.

Will, she is not so fond of the clear waters. It hides nothing; everything is revealed to the light. The reflection of her ravaged face stares straight back at her. There are no secrets in this sea.

Will likes secrets now.

Hannibal rents them a house right on the cliffs, and she is quite sure he means to remind her of that night. Their fall. Hannibal's way of telling her he is still somewhat disappointed in her. But the French doors opens to a patio full of wild winds, and she enjoys sitting out there letting her mind go completely blank.

And at day she wanders the narrow streets, around and around the battlement walls, avoiding peoples eyes. And at night he hunts the dark alleyways and the fine hotels. He's growing ever greedier, ever more rapacious, and that is because of her.

Because after he has been roaming the dark, sating his hunger, he comes into Will's bedroom and into her bed so that she may sate hers. She clings to him and nuzzles his skin, burrows her nose into the hollow of his throat and breathes deep, drinks in murder and rent skin and rivers of blood and pure, unadulterated delight.

He holds her as she gorges on death, steals it from him, and the pictures in her head are glorious _(the pendulum swings wildly back and forth so fast it might sever her optical nerve)_ and she wills it to never end.

All those beautiful colours. All the glistening dripping ( _drip drop drip drop_ ) shades of red and black.

When she is full up and satiated he presses his lips to her forehead, gently, so gently, then leaves her for his own bedroom. She remains in bed, languid, eyes wide open to the dark, and sometimes she even smiles.

Because she knows (she _knows_ ) that Hannibal will never tire of her now.

* * *

 _Kyoto, Japan_

* * *

Hannibal chose to come for the cuisine, and Will learns to love the temples and gardens. She grows to love rain. Walking among shrines and idols she can feel her very own human-veil starting to settle around her face, threads of gossamer, stitches of steel, as fluid and unyielding as everything else within her.

She crushes cherry petals under her feet and her daydreams are violent and beautiful. She keeps herself in check though. She doesn't think he will forgive her if she feeds without him.

And then one morning she wakes up and realises that she is no longer missing her dogs.

He knocks on her bedroom door.

"Time to go."

* * *

 _Dimmuborgir, Iceland_

* * *

She is back in snowfall, and she lifts her face to the flakes, catches frozen crystals on her tongue and traps moonlight in her hair and she smiles and it is _real._

She studies what lies before her. He has taken her many places, across the world and back again, shown her wonders and pure evil and aching beauty. But this place… this place is… _other._

Petrified mythology. Fire turned to stone. A black lava-scape imbued with primal beauty and ancient rage. A fallen dark citadel shrouded in moss and time, a broken twisted church. Whispers, so many many whispers.

Whispers so strong, so insistent, it breaks her pendulum clean in two.

But still she _sees._

She knows why he has brought her here.

Wrapped in winds she watches him walk among the black twisted pillars and he seem as ancient as them, as otherworldly and immovable and frozen in time. His gaze brims over with the death of uncountable stars.

He is…. _home_.

Will Graham is happy.

* * *

Notes: In Christian Scandi lore Dimmuborgir (The Dark Castles) is said to be the place where Lucifer landed after being thrown from heaven, the force of the fall creating the wonderful and unusual lava formations.

As ever anything I produce under the influence of wine is unbetaed, and English isn't my first language, so please do shout if you spot any mistakes.


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